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Wanderings
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TITLE (EDIT)
Wanderings |
DESCRIPTION
My first attempts at poetry.
[408 words] |
AUTHOR
John Hazard |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
22 year old college student just beginning to put pen to paper.
[April 2000] |
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL ADDRESS
HazardJF@aol.com |
Wanderings
John Hazard
1-7-00
I wish that I could play, I wish I knew how.
I wish I could start. I dare not try.
I believe I know who, in my untried heart,
I even know why, in my confused young brain.
Everything says yes, that I should give it a go,
My knees will not move, they hear all the No's
She knows what I know and comes to my aid,
She gives me a hint, gives me a wink
But all I can do is turn thoughts into ink.
What is there to be afraid? I ask when I'm brave.
No one can answer, but I listen anyway.
Love not yet lost, still slipping by.
A moment not won. Why?
I tell myself the moment will come
But now is not the time, if not then when?
The day will be, I shall say my peace
I fear if not soon I shall lose my turn.
"Walls"
My mind wants to dance
My brain wants to sprint,
Thoughts try to wander,
They bounce front and back
Like a million rubber balls
Taking aim at my soul,
But propelled back from my heart.
My mind will not rest
Not for lunch, not even for sleep,
I get no peace inside.
Like a prisoner
Pacing the floors
Scratching the walls that hold him
The walls, My skull are irritated, bleeding
Giving way but holding back.
The guards take notice
But make no move
Their presence is enough
It paralyzes.
Fear is my jailer
Fear imprisons me
Fear must be subdued
The guards must be thrown back.
The more he sees beyond the walls
The more he sees it's potential
The more he wants out
The more he wants to prove.
He lies down and breathes heavy
The thoughts continue to scratch away
The walls might break,
So might he.
-3-
I wish that I knew where this ride was heading.
I wish I knew when and where I could get off.
I want to try the next ride.
The lines for many of them look long and my patience is waning.
People are willing to wait in line with me.
They help ease the torture of waiting.
But they can't wait in line for me.
They can't ride for me.
I want to love the ride.
I want to hate the ride
I am tired of hearing about others on the rides.
It's my turn.
-4-
My heroes are dead men
They used their talents
Made their mark
They never fizzled
They exploded and vanished
One was a poet, a soldier, a man
Restrained himself, as the times required
Made his mark in darkness
Left it in a hole
His work would leave the dirt, he would not
Another was a poet, a soldier, a clown
He did his work upon a stage
He made his a life a spectacle
His final act was left in a drain
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2000 John Hazard |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
April 2000 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
1771
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